Man of War

by Sean Parnell

  Cortez cut an imposing figure, and in addition to two Silver Stars, Airborne Wings, and Ranger Tab he also had the distinctive “long tab” and combat patch of the Green Berets.

  “That photo is the original. According to a friend at the Pentagon, everything else had been erased. It was almost like Mr. Cortez never existed.”

  The next page showed a woman, the angle and clarity telling Styles that the photo had been taken from a security camera.

  “Meg Harden. That picture is from the safehouse where Charlie Daniels’s body was recovered. She is one of ours, but came out of the Army. Used to work for the Activity. The SOG team that was escorting her was wiped out.”

  Styles flipped the page. This photo was hazy, but she knew it came from a Reaper drone. Someone in the imagery department had tagged the building in the center with an ID number. The Director didn’t need it. She knew it was the Gatehouse and it was a mangled, sagging wreck. There were jagged holes in the roof, and the wall had been blown out and blackened by fire. In the far right of the frame there was a van. The next couple of images were close-up shots of the van. The front end was a twisted, crumpled mess. All of the windows were shot out and the metal pockmarked with bullet holes. Inside, expended brass shone golden atop pools of congealed blood and bits of flesh. There was a headless body leaning against the door, the flesh around the neck flayed bits of reddish meat.

  “Not for the faint of heart, is it?” Styles asked.

  “No, ma’am. The final page I believe will interest you the most.”

  It was another Blue Notice. Styles had never seen the man before, but was struck by his dark green eyes. He was a hard-looking man, someone you would not fight unless you had to.

  “Who is this?”

  “He is the man traveling with Ms. Harden, and we assume they are both on the aircraft heading to Paris.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “That’s just it. According to Interpol that man is Max Sands, a businessman from Toronto. I think it is a shell.”

  “An alias? Why do you think that?”

  “I ran him through the systems. Sands has a passport, tax information, and a driver’s license, but no tickets or debt. His passport shows that he travels exclusively to Europe, but when I ran his face through facial recognition I got hits in Tunis, Algiers, Iraq, even a hit in the Ukraine. Places Max Sands has never been.”

  He’s an Alpha.

  Styles couldn’t prove it, but the best part of her job was that she didn’t have to. All she needed to launch an operation was actionable intelligence and a target. The Blue Notice, combined with the tail numbers sent from the asset in Algiers, gave her exactly that.

  She had run operations on much less.

  “I want everything we have on this. Tell Interpol to update this to Red,” she said, tapping at the notice, “and send it to customs and Homeland Security. They go on the no-fly list within the hour, do you understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Send a team to Cyprus and have them keep Cortez under surveillance. The priority is Harden and this guy. I want all available SOG teams in Paris before the plane hits the tarmac, and tell NSA we need eyes in the sky. Dan, I need you to listen to me,” Styles said, talking over her glasses. “This is priority one, everything we have goes to nailing this guy, do you understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I mean everything. You have my direct authority to pull anyone from anywhere.”

  “I was going to issue a BOLO and send it to Europe,” Dan added.

  A BOLO stood for “Be on the lookout” and was sent to local police forces and anyone else not connected to the national database.

  “Do it.

  “And, Dan, I don’t care if you bring him back in a body bag, just get him.”

  Chapter 41

  “A legend is like a second skin, you have to know it inside and out,” Steele said, shifting to take the pressure off his lower back. Economy class was not built for comfort, and Steele was getting a crick in his neck from facing Meg.

  She rolled her eyes, venting her frustration. Steele was beginning to figure her out in bits and pieces. Meg was used to being good at things and he imagined she was the kind of person who latched on to a new idea the first time. He was sure that she knew what a legend was, but Steele wasn’t the kind of guy who settled for mediocre.

  This is exactly why I work alone.

  “Let’s take a break, I have to pee anyway,” she said, snapping the seat belt free and flinging it into the seat.

  They had flown from Chlef, a city two hours southwest of Algiers, and boarded a flight that was scheduled to land in Seville in an hour. Steele could feel the minutes slipping away. The papers they were using to get into Spain were disposable, and Steele had every intention of dumping them after clearing customs. Once they cleared the airport, he would become Max Sands and Meg would be his wife.

  Adding a wife hadn’t been a problem. He chose the name Caroline because it reminded him of his mother. They were newlyweds from Toronto on their way to the Riviera for a honeymoon. He had been hammering Meg with the details, ignoring Demo’s warning to start slow.

  “Where do we live?”

  “1901 Bayview Avenue, Toronto.”

  “Do we rent or own?”

  “Rent—it’s a condo. We moved there because of the view and because they allow dogs.”

  When Meg came back she was holding two miniature bottles of vodka and a can of Sprite snuggled atop two plastic cups. “Thought we could use a study break.” Steele took the airplane vodka and twisted the top. He wasn’t a vodka man and would have preferred to shoot it straight, but he waited dutifully for Meg to crack the Sprite and mix her drink before following suit.

  “You sure this is what you want? The boss said I had to take you with me, he didn’t say you had to play. Seville has some nice shopping, you could look around—”

  “What happens when we hit the ground?” she interrupted.

  “Been wondering that myself,” he said, adding a drop of Sprite for “flavor.”

  Flying commercial was the only way in. They were trading security for time. What was nagging at him was the realization that he had no idea where West was.

  Steele needed an edge, either speed, surprise, or violence of action, but right now he didn’t have any of them. “Always chasing the rabbit,” he mused aloud.

  “What?”

  “When I was in Special Forces we’d go down to Mississippi and train.”

  “Shaws?” She asked, referring to the nickname given to the Mid South Shooting Institute.

  “Yeah, you been there?”

  “Once or twice.”

  “Ever meet Ronnie?”

  “No.” Meg’s eyes rotated up, accessing her memory. “Don’t think so.”

  “Ronnie was an old Team guy, a SEAL from Bangor, Maine, I think.” Steele smiled, remembering the old salt’s raspy accent. “He’d set up these scenarios where you’d end up chasing a guy who was sucking you into an ambush. We were using sim guns, and after we got shot to shit he’d say, ‘Ain’t no fun when the rabbit’s got the gun.’ After that we called it ‘chasing the rabbit.’”

  Steele paused to take another drink. “I heard Ronnie took a contract in Afghanistan. Teaching guys how to shoot just wasn’t enough,” he said wistfully.

  “What happened to him?”

  “Took an IED outside of the Bermel District Center, blew him right out of the Hilux and into a ditch. He bled out before they found him.”

  He could tell by the way she brushed the story off that she had plenty of her own. Death was nothing new to a soldier.

  “You ever gone in blind like this?” she asked.

  He nodded and finished the drink with a long pull. The vodka burned the back of his throat and warmed his face. “I’ve gone in blind and I’ve gone in dark, but never at the same time. An ‘empty quiver’ tends to change the rules.”

  “Empty quiver?”

  “A missing nuc
lear weapon.” He fell silent, sensing Meg’s eyes on him.

  When they landed in Spain, Steele pulled a hat low over his face. He’d put brown contacts in to hide his eyes and followed Meg to the baggage carousel. Before 9/11 you could travel light, but these days security tended to pay attention to people who traveled without luggage, especially on international flights.

  They stood together in the customs line, and Steele brought his mouth to Meg’s ear and whispered, “We are just two lovebirds on their honeymoon.” He gave her a kiss on the ear and stepped forward.

  The agent looked at their Canadian passports and asked, “Mr. and Mrs. Sands, what brings you to Spain?”

  “It is our honeymoon,” Meg answered, looping her arm around Steele’s waist.

  The agent glanced at their passports before waving them over the scanner. Eric felt Meg stiffen and knew she was holding her breath. He gave her a gentle squeeze and said, “This is her first time in Spain. I know she is going to love it.”

  “I hope so,” the agent said, handing the papers back and motioning them through the line.

  Outside the terminal they headed to the long-term parking garage and Steele pulled a universal key fob out of his pocket.

  “How do you have a car already waiting?” Meg asked.

  Steele smiled in response and pushed the button. The line of cars closest to him all unlocked with a beep. “You mean to tell me the CIA doesn’t have these?”

  “Show-off.”

  He needed a newer vehicle, one that didn’t have a key, and luckily found a BMW that fit the bill right away.

  “Okay, I have got to see this. My dad is a car guy and he swears that you can’t hotwire the new Beemers.”

  “Hotwire, what is this, the nineties?” Steele asked, tossing their luggage in the trunk. He walked around to the driver’s side and put his foot on the brake. “No one boosts cars like that anymore. Wait, please don’t tell me they are still teaching that at the Farm.”

  “What are you going to do, smartass?”

  “Uh, I’m going to start the car.” He jabbed the push-to-start with his index finger and the sedan came to life. “Gotta love technology.”

  Steele had already memorized the route from the Seville airport to the Palacio de Congresos train station and headed west, bypassing as many road cameras as possible. It took a bit longer, but nothing blew an op faster than having your picture taken for running a red light. He parked the car at the station and wiped it down the best he could.

  “You good, baby?” he asked, coming up behind Meg and grabbing her butt with a roguish smile.

  She jumped and slapped his hand away with a surprised yelp. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Steele was still grinning and held up his hand, waving his ring finger back and forth like an exclamation point. “Caroline, baby, you have got to relax.”

  “Shit.” Meg hid her face behind her hands, but Steele could see her cheeks redden.

  He got serious real fast. “That’s how it happens,” he began. “You drop your legend for one second and”—he snapped his fingers and Meg jumped—“you’re dead.”

  Maybe this was a mistake.

  Even if it was, Steele knew it was too late to switch her out. The best he could do was keep her on the sidelines as much as possible. Hopefully that might keep her alive.

  She was tired, he could see it in her eyes, so he decided to give her a break and turned his attention back to the situation at hand and the added stress of traveling “clean.” He didn’t have a weapon, cover, or any backup. Besides Meg, his closest help was Demo, and he was in Cyprus. A slip here could cost the mission.

  No matter how fast they ran, there was no way Steele and Meg could outrun a Motorola, the radios the police used in Europe. The digital age had changed everything, and while it made life easier for civilians, the opposite was true for Steele. The Internet connected everything and there was no doubt that someone was watching. Every cell phone came with a camera, and when you added traffic cams and video feeds it was impossible to stay out of the light.

  “This is the time we are most exposed. I have a locker in the train station that has my gear. We have to get to it or it’s game over.”

  Meg grabbed his hand. The touch was both unexpected and electric, and this time Steele was caught by surprise. She felt him flinch and grinned from ear to ear.

  “Relaaax, hubby,” she taunted, “we are just a married couple heading for a train ride.”

  The station’s security was serious. Overhead, tinted globes hid surveillance cameras, and soldiers with fully automatic weapons guarded the exits. A teeming mass of families walking hand in hand with young children and businessmen glued to smartphones formed a crowd that stretched the terminal to bursting.

  The first thing Steele did was clear the door and move to the wall. He ambled over to a gift shop with Meg in tow and pretended to peruse the shop. He used the glass to scan the faces, looking for anyone who might be watching before focusing on a table cluttered with envelopes and postal supplies.

  “You see the table?” he whispered, without looking at Meg.

  “Yeah.”

  “Walk over to the envelopes and stand on the far right. You are going to mask me.”

  Meg did as she was told, weaving through the crowd until she was standing where he wanted her. Steele took a piece of paper out of his pocket, just another traveler with something to put in the post. He kept his head down, eyes on the paper, checking his flanks out of his peripheral. He sidled up to the table, patting his pocket like he’d forgotten something, and let Meg know to block the camera. Reaching below the table, he found the key right where it was supposed to be and palmed it.

  “Let’s go.”

  Steele looked at the number engraved on the metal. The key belonged to locker 103, which sat on the far side of the platform. There were too many faces to watch and he knew that if they were going to take him down they would do it now. Getting hit wasn’t his only worry; he also had to be on the lookout for counterintel.

  He waited for the next train to pull in and let the squealing brakes cover his move. The crowd jostled for position, creating a human shield, and he flashed to the locker, inserting the key into the lock and swinging the door open deftly. The bag inside looked exactly like the one he was carrying and he made the switch and secured the locker in less than ten seconds. He placed his arm around Meg and guided her back to the bathroom, gently nuzzling her neck as they moved.

  “Go change, dump your clothes. I’ll be waiting here.”

  “Okay.”

  She was following his lead and Steele couldn’t ask for anything more. The bathroom was packed, but luckily one of the stalls near the end was unoccupied. He ducked inside, locking the door behind him. Unlike American stalls, the European ones had floor-to-ceiling cubes surrounding the toilets—perfect for changing. Steele opened his luggage and changed into a pair of dark jeans, work boots, and a gray shirt. He took Max and Caroline Sands’s passports from the bag he’d retrieved from the locker and checked the entry stamp. It was from Heathrow Airport and dated the day before.

  Satisfied, he stuffed his old passport and dirty clothes into a bundle and flushed the toilet. On his way out, he dumped the wad into the trash can.

  Meg came out in a pair of formfitting pants and a cream top. Wow, she cleans up nice. She had even touched up her makeup, effectively hiding the circles under her eyes. Steele handed Meg her ticket just as a train pulled up in a squeal of brakes and a press of eager travelers. Steele and Meg joined the rush, but didn’t relax until they pulled out of the station.

  The private compartment was small and the blue interior and recycled air reminded Steele of the plane they had taken from Algiers. There were two bunk beds, a small bathroom, and a desk near the window.

  Meg threw her bag on the top bunk and kicked off her shoes. “Are you going to get some sleep?”

  “In a minute,” Steele lied, stepping into the bathroom.

  He popped an
amphetamine tab and turned on the sink to wash his face. Recycled air always made his skin greasy, and the short scrub was a welcome luxury. By the time he had wiped off the sink, used the toilet, and stepped out, Meg was snoring lightly.

  She’s all tuckered out.

  He took a blanket from the closet and draped it over her, realizing that besides what he had read, he didn’t know one common thing about Meg. The first question that popped into his mind was whether she was single.

  Easy, buddy.

  The one thing he did know was that a girl like Meg didn’t belong in this world. He locked the door and slipped the chain in place, then kicked off his shoes, grabbed the bag, and padded to the desk next to the window. He used his fingernail to find the hidden seam in the bottom of the bag and found a stack of cash, credit cards, a computer, and a .38 Smith & Wesson revolver. The serial number had already been filed off and the cylinder release, just like the trigger, was covered in surgical tape. Don’t have to worry about prints if I toss it.

  After ensuring that the pistol was loaded, Steele flicked the cylinder into the battery with a snap of his wrist, and opened the computer. He logged in and brought up the browser that linked him to the Keyhole Surveillance and Global Target System. At the top was a tab with the mission reference number Rockford had assigned to Bassar, and Steele clicked it and waited for the uplink to establish.

  The only reason the Keyhole wasn’t leaked by Edward Snowden was because he didn’t know it existed. Like the Program, Keyhole was a special access program, highly compartmentalized to keep it from prying eyes.

  Finally the computer dinged at the same moment Steele felt the amphetamine creep into his bloodstream.

  He opened a second window and logged in to the Program’s debriefing files. He typed in West’s name and a list of audio files popped up. He selected one from the list and hit the play arrow.

  “Alpha Debrief 19072004 conducting After Action Review with Stalker 2,” a voice began. “Stalker 2, what was your mission?”